


Song of the May Queen

by OneHandedBooks



Category: Hannibal (TV), Midsommar (2019)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Bodily Fluids, Hannibal Midsommar AU, M/M, Ritual Drug USe, Ritual Sex, mpreg hallucination, will cries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneHandedBooks/pseuds/OneHandedBooks
Summary: This will probably only make sense if you've seen the movie Midsommar. And it contains spoilers for that movie.Will and his friends visit an isolated pagan people called the Hårga during their very special Midsummer festival. Hannibal is a favored son of the community and he welcomes Will in particular, suggesting he might stay and call it home. The Midsummer festival features ritual sex and death and hallucinogenic drugs. Will is the last one standing at the end of a demanding maypole dance and he is crowned the May Queen. He wields a terrible power in this role, sentencing his unworthy boyfriend to a gruesome death as part of the Hårga's sacrifice to their pagan gods. Following this harrowing ceremony, he goes looking for the man who welcomed him in.I owe this Hannibal/Midsommar AU directly to @teacupsandtime's and @beatricenius's Twitter musings and to @beatricenius's awesome Hannibal/Midsommar AU art. Thanks for the inspiration, friendos.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 186





	1. Chapter 1

Will is buried in flowers. He staggers towards the common house, dragging his ungainly silhouette across a wide green field that stretches on forever under the unforgiving blue sky. The heavy, flowered gown clutches at the earth as though it would drag him down.

His head is spinning, pupils blown wide with mushroom magic. His mouth a trembling, triumphant slash. He was the May Queen. _Is the_ _May Queen?_ Was the May Queen. Judge and jury with his choice of executioners.

Behind him the Hårga are laughing. Praying or dancing. Maybe it is all the same.

There is still the fatty crackle of flame at his back. The choking smoke rising in ebony ribbons that grade out to grey and fade to white as the wind steals them away. Screams gone silent, but echo still in the depths of the ring forest. He is savagely glad of it.

He is panting with effort by the time he stumbles to the threshold of the common house, sweat dripping down his forehead under the weighty flower crown he bears. Hannibal is there, as Will had hoped he’d be. Sitting calmly cross-legged on the weathered wooden floor, waiting.

He rises to his knees when he sees Will, arms outstretched and beaming. His stark white shirt and trousers are stained with deep red embroidery. They shine with their own light in the shaded room.

Will sobs sharply and shoves his flower shrouded body through the narrow doorway in an explosion of color. The heavy hem of the dress hisses like water as it floods the floor. He stalks across the room, shedding jewel-bright petals like rain, and collapses at Hannibal’s side. Hannibal gathers him as close as he can, hands digging into the mass of flowers surrounding him.

“You saw,” Will says, but his eyes are wide with uncertainty, shimmering with fresh tears. “Did you see?”

“I saw,” Hannibal murmurs, pushing damp curls back from Will’s forehead. “You did so well, min älskling." He kisses Will softly on each pinked cheek. “So well.”

Hannibal takes a glass of frigid liquid from the table beside them and swallows a crystal mouthful. He sucks in a short deep breath then exhales hard with a sharp and harsh sound, as though the cold has shocked the air from him. Hannibal takes Will’s chin in his hand and tips the glass to Will’s mouth in turn, holds it for him as he drinks.

Will’s trapped hands clench reflexively inside the cage of flowers as the liquid fills his mouth. It’s water maybe. Mostly. Water and something else. Something herbed and oily and faintly floral. And it’s cold. So cold it burns his throat when he swallows. 

“More,” Hannibal exhorts, holding Will’s chin a little tighter, tilting the glass higher to empty it into his mouth.

Will swallows again and again, a refreshing line of cool fire streaking his belly, until the glass is empty. He copies Hannibal’s indrawn breath and harsh exhale without thinking. Hannibal sets the glass aside and smiles at him, exceptionally pleased.

Will tries to wriggle closer, to reach for Hannibal, but he’s confined. Stifled. His belly is in flames, frozen heat rushing along his limbs. His body bound in blossoms. He shoves and kicks at the flower gown from the inside, moaning, his fingers tearing at it, ripping it apart at stem and root. _No. _He’s entombed. Ghastly. _No._ Like Christian in the bear. _No!_

Hannibal shakes his head, as though Will has cried aloud. “Death for him. Life for you, May Queen.”

He murmurs soothing sounds under his breath and pets Will through the mound of fragrant flowers, gentling and calming, then he hooks his fingers into the neck of the garment and starts to rip it open along the front. Will grapples fiercely with the ceremonial gown as it tears open around him, shoving it off his shoulders as soon as he can and dropping it in a depleted heap on the floor behind him.

He reaches up to rip the cumbersome flower crown away as well, but Hannibal stops him with a light touch. One by one, he removes the tall flowered spikes circling its edge and sets them aside, then adjusts the unburdened chaplet so it sits lightly on Will’s brow.

“Leave this,” Hannibal requests.

Will takes a deep shaking breath and is dismayed to find that he is crying again. His mouth turns down, trembling faintly as his eyes well up. Will he never run dry?

“The Spring never runs dry,” Hannibal says, answering his thoughts again. It has the sound of ritual.

He cups Will’s sea-streaked face in his broad hands and wipes the new tears away, pulls Will across his lap like a child and holds him, rocks him. Will wraps his arms around Hannibal’s neck and sobs in anguish against his shoulder. Hannibal strokes his bare back, his shivering shoulders. They sway together. The fine linen of Hannibal’s clothes caresses Will’s bare skin raising the hair on his arms, at the nape of his neck.

“I’m so proud,” Hannibal whispers into the summersweet flowers tangled in Will’s hair. “So proud, May Queen.”

Will sniffs and looks up at him, eyes soft and wet and hopeful, his eyelashes stuck together and sparkling. Hannibal kisses him with gentle acceptance. A chaste press of lips, soft and sweet and tangy with salt.

Will kisses him back, matching Hannibal’s softness at first, then pushes closer. His kisses growing harder, hotter. He throws his leg over Hannibal’s lap and grinds down against him, his bared thighs and cock and belly pressed to Hannibal’s bright linen. Plush lips parted and inviting. He touches his tongue to Hannibal’s and makes a high yearning sound in his throat.

Will wants this now. Now. He wants it even with the savory stink of his burnt offering still on the wind and the agonized screams ringing in his ears. With flowers in his hair and petals plastered to his skin. He keens and growls with grief and desire, yanking frantically at the hem of Hannibal’s shirt, the corded drawstring of his trousers.

Hannibal shrugs out of his shirt as quickly as he can with Will pulling at it and tries not to dump Will entirely out of his lap as he struggles out of his pants. When he’s finally nude, he cradles Will’s head in his hand and lays him down in the mass of flowers. He parts Will’s legs reverently and covers him with his broad body, in service to his need. He slides a hand down the outside of Will’s strong thigh and up under his back to hold him close.

He kisses Will deeply, leans in to nip at his ear and suck a bruise to his neck. Dips his head to take one of Will’s tightly peaked nipples into his hot mouth and bites lightly. Will clenches a hand in his hair and pulls his head back. Hannibal blinks in surprise and waits, expectant.

“Inside,” Will pleads, sobs trailing off into hitching little gasps. “Inside. Get inside me.”

Hannibal sits back on his heels between Will’s spread thighs and regards him solemnly. Will reaches up and grasps a handful of the thick hair on Hannibal’s chest to goad him on and gasps- Hannibal is the sacrificial bear. And then he’s himself again.

Hannibal swipes his thumb through the tears coursing down Will’s cheeks and anoints him with salt, touching his thumb to the middle of Will’s forehead, and base of his throat, and the tip of his weeping cock. He pushes his first two fingers into Will’s mouth and Will licks and sucks at them. Laving them broadly until they’re running with moisture. Hannibal’s eyes close and his hips buck involuntarily with the rhythm of Will’s suckling.

Will’s heart is pounding. He can see it struggling relentlessly in the dome of his own ribs like a wild thing caught in a net of vines. It’s made of flowers, burning with darklight. Will smells honeysuckle. When Hannibal pulls his hand from Will’s sorrowful mouth, his fingers are dripping nectar.

Hannibal seems enormous suddenly, knelt at his feet and looming over him. Backlit bronze cast in antlered shadow. The monstrous Oak King. Hannibal’s dark inhuman hand disappears between Will’s thighs and circles his delicate opening with spit-slicked fingers, making him sensitive, making him ready. Will groans and tips his head back against the flowers as Hannibal breaches his body.

He shuts his eyes tightly and reopens them. The leaves and petals of his chaplet flutter at the edge of his heavy-lidded vision as Hannibal strokes sweetly, shallowly inside him. There is the sound of bees buzzing, of birds chirping endlessly in the endless day. The low rough sound of Hannibal spitting wetly into his own palm.

Hannibal’s thick slicked cock presses bluntly against him and Will shifts his hips up in glad welcome. May Queen yielding easily to the King of Summer.

“Inside. Inside,” Will whispers in a quiet chant. He kicks his heels lightly against Hannibal’s ass, spurring him on. “Please. Inside. I want to feel. I want.” 

Hannibal tucks his forehead into Will’s neck, buries his nose in clean sweat and faded tears, and thrusts in hard. He groans deep in his chest as Will opens for him and he rocks his hips gently, firmly, until they meet the curve of Will’s bottom.

Will wraps his legs around Hannibal’s waist and holds on as Hannibal moves him, moves _in_ him. Eternal sunlight sparkling in his beard, his silvered hair, his eyelashes. He’s gathered Will close and his hips are working, driving his cock deep as though he would make love to the very earth under them.

Will blinks in dreamy ecstasy and rolls his head to follow a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye. Flowers are growing up from the battered dress beneath them, brilliant orange roses, and lilies, and daisies pushing their way up through the tangled mat of leaves in wavering fast forward.

Will’s eyes flutter closed as purple passionflower vines twine around him, pierce painlessly through him. He arches up gratefully into Hannibal’s endless thrusts. In the dark behind his eyes he sees himself pregnant, his belly swelling between them, rounded with their child. The child of two ripe seasons.

Will tilts his chin up to invite Hannibal’s kiss, moaning as Hannibal nips at him, licks into his mouth. He squeezes his thighs around Hannibal’s waist and rocks up against him, pressing his straining cock to Hannibal’s furred belly. Pleasure comes from everywhere, spreading unbearably though him. The hall of flowers surrounding them trembles as Will trembles.

“I feel held by you,” he whispers desperately against Hannibal’s throat.

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes, burying himself over and over in Will’s tight heat. “Yes. Yes.”

“Fill me,” Will begs. “Fill me. Fill me up.”

He urges Hannibal further on, digging his heels into the backs of his thighs, then arches up, whimpering, as Hannibal rises on his knees and nearly bends him in half. 

“Will,” Hannibal groans. He thrusts as deep as he can and holds there, shaking as he comes. “May Queen. My queen.”

He pauses, panting, body pulsing pleasure, then slips a hand between them and wraps it around Will’s urgently throbbing cock. “Spill for me,” he coaxes, stroking fast and perfect.

Will chokes back tears as his body seizes up, clenching hard around Hannibal’s length, and he comes with a convulsive little cry. Long aching pulses paint Hannibal’s hand, his belly, his chest. Hannibal sighs in delight and pulls Will in close, smearing the hot fluid between them, marking them both.

They are breathless and warm in their bed of ruined flowers. The bruised and broken petals cradling their quivering bodies, sweetly scenting the air around them. Hannibal sinks down, blanketing Will’s slender form with his own heavier one. He kisses Will’s flushed cheeks, his smiling mouth, the tip of his nose.

Will hisses in faint discomfort as Hannibal slowly withdraws from his body, leaving him empty. Hannibal strokes his cheek in tender apology, kisses him deeply once more, and then stretches out on his back at Will’s side. He entwines their fingers with a long languid sigh and shifts his shoulders comfortably, sinking deeper into the messy nest of flowers.

Will watches the ceiling for a long while, drifting on a tide of slowly ebbing ecstasy. The light chases shadows across the illustrated wood above him. The black sketched Hårga figures are dancing, their boats sailing a wooden sea. Painted flowers bloom and grow and die and bloom again. He feels Hannibal’s strong hand in his. Listens to his deep even breathing. He squeezes Hannibal’s hand and Hannibal makes a small, satisfied noise and squeezes back reassuringly.

Will looks down along his own bare body. He swipes curiously at the flowers still threaded through his flesh, but his hand passes right through them and they fade away. There is no breathing trembling flowered hall around them anymore. Only the crumpled remnants of a once grand prison of petals strewn across the floor.

He leans up on his elbow and gazes down at Hannibal, who blinks blearily at him in the shifting light. He trails the backs of his fingers along Hannibal’s hardcarved cheekbone and plucks a fragment of flower petal from his beard with a smile.

“You see me,” Will says.

“I see you,” Hannibal agrees.

Hannibal drags a finger through a streak of semen on his chest and touches it to his own bottom lip and then to Will’s in filthy communion. Will gasps and touches his tongue automatically to the swipe of bitter salt. His body tingles, tightens suddenly with renewed desire, and he feels Hannibal’s warmth slipping down his leg. His face colors with embarrassment and he starts to turn away, to press his thighs tight together, but Hannibal won’t allow it. He kneels up quickly and takes hold of Will’s legs, spreading them wide again.

Will makes a sound of protest low in his throat and pulls half-heartedly against Hannibal’s grip, but Hannibal shushes him. He bows his head and strokes his hands down the inside of Will’s thighs in true devotion, holding them open as his seed seeps from Will’s body and soaks into the crumpled flowers beneath him.

“For the future,” he offers, as though that is a reasonable explanation.

He leans down and kisses each of Will’s knees affectionately, then lets him go. “We can bathe in the river now. If you would like.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal helps Will stand on unsteady feet and they walk out into the mellow sun as naked and shaky as newborn deer. They pass through the village clad in warm summer wind, their bodies streaked yellow and green with pollen and leaf, confettied with brightly colored bits of broken petals.

The village seems empty, but Will can hear people talking somewhere. Laughing, singing. A crisp crackle of flame and the smell of something delicious cooking. The dark disquieting shapes of the Hårga's architecture stand out starkly against the deepening blue of the evening sky- every angle wrong. 

Hannibal walks in shadow at his side. Towering tall and antlered again. Broad shoulders, and arms, and chest. The bold curve of his belly and soft curve of his cock. His muscular legs bend back unnaturally at the knee, calves tapering to powerful hooves. Will can’t see Hannibal’s face for the sun in his eyes, but he can feel Hannibal smiling at him. Will smiles back. It seems right that Hannibal should be this thing.

They wander arm in arm to the banks of a shallow river lined with tall reeds and sweet grasses. The water parts for them as they step down into it. Welcoming. As Will had been welcoming. 

Hannibal lifts the exhausted flower crown from Will’s head and sets it adrift on the current. He watches it go with strange satisfaction, then coaxes Will further on into a deeper eddy. Will shivers as cool water engulfs his calves and laps at his thighs. Hannibal grins and rubs his hands briskly along Will’s arms to warm him, takes his hands and leads him though the shade of overhanging branches and into a patch of bright sun.

He bends to fill his cupped hands with sparkling river water and pours it over Will’s body like a blessing. Will sighs and sways as Hannibal sluices water over him again and again, from shoulders to knees, washing away fragmented flowers and leaves, dried salt and sweat and semen.

Hannibal runs his hands down Will’s legs then scoops up more water, moving to rinse away the sticky mess between Will’s thighs. Will blushes again and flinches back, but Hannibal hooks an arm firmly around his waist and holds him in place, guiding the water up his inner thighs and over his crotch in a cold kiss. Will lets out an undignified squealing laugh and shoves him away. Startled, Hannibal stumbles and topples like a tree.

He comes up sputtering with an expression that’s half wounded, half calculating. Will gives him a sly look in return and flicks his fingers deliberately across the surface of the river, splashing him in the face. Hannibal narrows his eyes and smacks the water hard. The retaliatory wave breaks against Will’s laughing mouth and he sputters and snorts. He staggers forward, swiping at his eyes and Hannibal wraps his arms around his torso and drags him down.

They wrestle joyfully in the running river. Tumbling, and splashing, and pushing. First Will triumphant, straddling Hannibal's lap, hands bearing down on his shoulders, then Hannibal over him, pinning him. They laugh, kicking legs tangled and strong bodies slotted warmly together. 

Will undulates like a fish, slips from Hannibal’s grip and slides under the water. He swirls his hair in the mild pull of the stream, just for the pleasure of it, then springs back up, shaking his head and throwing off water like cut crystals.

The current sucks at the gritty sand beneath his feet and he throws his arms out to regain his balance. He feels dizzy, beset by vertigo.

Hannibal at his side, steadying him. 

The sun is in the water. Midnight sun. Sun spangles in his eyes and flickering fireflies in the reeds. Or maybe torches, lanterns. Are there lanterns on the river bank? _Is it night?_

“Is it night?” He hears himself ask anxiously.

Hannibal wraps him in a warm embrace and hushes him gently. "We have months yet until night falls again," he whispers against Will's temple. 

He runs his hands through Will’s wild wet curls to soothe his worry, releasing the sweet woody scent of the few stubborn flowers still caught and tangled there. He takes Will’s face in his hands, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his pale delicate eyelids. He kisses Will sweetly from the tender curve of his neck to the ticklish curve behind his knee and back again. An ocean of kisses. Soft as sunset, as spring tides.

Hannibal’s hot mouth on his throat, sharp teeth at his nipples, the scrape of his beard against his lean belly. Hannibal kisses and kisses and kisses him, soft and wet and open, until Will is desperately hard again and mewling, begging with his body for more, and then Hannibal goes to his knees in the river.

Hannibal takes Will’s slender hips in his hands and noses into the damp curls at the base of his cock with a breathy inhale.

"Sweet Will," he sighs.

He brushes the wet tip of Will’s straining cock back and forth against his parted lips, painting his mouth with bitter salt, hot breath cooling Will's hot flesh. 

He takes the silken head into his mouth and sucks. Will groans and tries not to thrust in as Hannibal swallows him whole. He puts his hands on Hannibal’s bent head like a benediction. Strokes through his silky hair. Grips the base of the antlers that have reappeared as reflections in the ruffled water. 

Hannibal runs his tongue over every inch of Will’s cock, sucks long and languorous. Worshiping him. Devouring him. He sweeps his thumbs along the hollows of Will’s hipbones, curves his hands around the curve of Will’s bottom and trails his fingers over the tender opening between his cheeks. He pushes up, offering delectable pressure and Will raises on his toes, moaning, thighs quaking.

Hannibal's hand at the small of his back encouraging him to rock his hips. Will thrusts slowly in time with his rhythm, dragging his cock over Hannibal’s clever tongue. It's meditative, almost serene, as if in deliberate counterpoint to his initial frantic need. He cups Hannibal's face gently in his hands and tilts his chin up. Hannibal blinks up at him through pale eyelashes, eyes heavy-lidded, gaze hazy and content. His eyes are gloss black, then autumn red, then his own hazel, flecked with gold.

Will strokes along the line of Hannibal’s brow, tucks his hair behind his ears, runs his fingers through Hannibal’s silver-tipped beard. He brushes his thumb along Hannibal’s rosy mouth, stretched wide around him. Hannibal ducks his head again and wraps his arms around Will’s waist, takes him deeper, sucks harder. Will groans, swaying in Hannibal’s embrace. His throat is tight and raw, eyes welling up with deep delight.

He stares dreamily at the steep grassy river bank across from them. It slopes up to a sun-dappled clearing carpeted in dense green moss dotted with tiny pink campion. They should sleep there after this, Will muses. Hannibal draped over him like a blanket, heavy against his back. The springy, velvety moss under their sprawled bodies. Hannibal’s soft cock thickening against his thigh. Making love in the clearing, warmed by the low sun. Taking Hannibal there or giving to him. Hannibal on top of him, behind him. Hannibal the caged bear, the royal stag. Furred thighs pressed to his. Clawed hands on his hips. His body clenches in protest at the idea of going again so soon with nothing but spit to slick the way. And yet.

“We should make love on the riverbank,” Will murmurs under his breath.

Hannibal hums in acknowledgment and Will shivers as the vibrations chase along his stiff length.

Will's eyes flutter shut and he imagines Hannibal under him, on his belly on the soft moss. Legs spread for him. Legs spread and waiting, trusting. _I would be gentle with him_. _So gentle_. How much of this he is saying aloud and how much is only in his mind? He can't tell. He would lick Hannibal open, make him hot, and wet, and wanting. Find the most sensitive spots that felt the best with fingers and tongue. He would wait to be asked and then press inside, make Hannibal sigh and keen and arch for him. Take him hard, deep and sweet.

He would…

He would…

Will throws his head back in pleasure and comes with love and with relief. He sinks down into Hannibal's waiting embrace and they dissolve into the river.


End file.
